


C'est La Mort (Such is Death)

by TheCumberLadyInTheWoods



Series: The Civil War Song Fiction [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depressed John, M/M, Mentions of Sexual Content, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCumberLadyInTheWoods/pseuds/TheCumberLadyInTheWoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day he had stood on the street and watched as Sherlock leapt from the rooftop of St. Bart's had been the day that John had died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	C'est La Mort (Such is Death)

***

_Swan dive down, eleven stories high_   
_Hold your breath until you see the light_   
_You can sink to the bottom of the sea_   
_Just don't go without me_

Dr. John Watson jerked awake with the name on his lips.

Sherlock.

For three years it had been this way. Every single bloody night. Dreams of Sherlock falling, diving, jumping. He was too late to save his friend. Too late to change the course of their destinies.

John lay back against the pillows and tried to calm his pounding heart. He breathed deeply and held it, staring at the ceiling as tears rolled down from the corners of his eyes and collected in his ears and hair line. God he missed his flatmate...no, Sherlock had been much more than that to him. He'd been his friend...companion...confidant.

His everything.

That was the hardest part. The fact that Sherlock Holmes had been everything to him and John had given him everything he had to the point that now, when he was alone again as he supposed had been inevitable really, he couldn't function. He was back in the old flat, back to staring at an empty blog post screen with nothing to write, back to sitting in a chair by the room's single window day and night with his service revolver in his lap just praying for the strength to either live or die. Most days it was thin line he walked closely. He'd slipped into nothingness and was simply existing. He admitted he wasn't doing that very well.

They had all tried to encourage him. Lestrade, Molly, even Mycroft had been by but he had simply dismissed them. Dismissed them in the way that one dismisses a bothersome thought or annoyance. He was mean and nasty when Lestrade tried to get him to open up about Sherlock, he was crude and harsh to Molly when she would bring up a memory of her work with the younger man, he'd had Lestrade escort Mycroft out of his flat once because he had refused to leave and refused to stop talking about his brother. They'd finally stopped coming about a month ago. John was thankful for that.

No one phoned, no one stopped him the street. The world went on about its business while John held on and tried to remember the man he had been with Sherlock.

Except he wasn't the man he had been before, he was different. He was...broken in the worst possible way. Left completely cracked open and exposed with his insides hanging out.

The day he had stood on the street and watched as Sherlock leapt from the rooftop of St. Bart's had been the day that John had died.

_Go get lost where no one can be found_   
_Drink so long and deep until you drown_   
_Say your goodbyes but darling if you please_   
_Don't go without me_

This is my note...that's what people do isn't it...leave a note. The words echoed through John's head, tangling with everything else Sherlock had ever said to him. He stared at the rooftop where he'd watched his friend fall. Stared at the point on the ground where he'd landed and bleed from his bashed skull.

He hadn't meant to come here. In fact, he had meant to go in the complete opposite direction. But as always when John wandered he found himself here. His life was lived between three points: His flat, the street in front of St. Bart's and the final resting place of his friend. He no longer moved through the streets of London seeing the great battlefield that Sherlock had. Everything John saw was so...ordinary, so...plain.

Boring.

He turned and wandered off back up the street. He planned to stop by the cemetery before he went back to his flat.

Just one last time, he told himself, just one last time.

_C'est la vie_   
_C'est la mort_   
_You and me_   
_Forever more_

John sat beside the headstone and looked out over the rows and rows of other stones. Trees dotted the property here and there, there was a group of people near the entrance looking through the stones for a loved one. Names, dates, messages about love and time well spent or wasted. Not on this one, no, just Sherlock Holmes, it read. Plain and simple. So very unlike the man whose grave it marked.

He reached inside his jacket pocket and removed a folded piece of paper and his revolver. If he was going to do this, he realized, it needed to be here in the quite peace of the cemetery beside his friend, not the cold and sterile interior of his flat.

John hoped that Mycroft would agree to let him be buried here. He didn't see why not. John owned the two plots, had owned them since he got back from the war. He smiled as he touched the black stone and the white name. Soon it wouldn't matter what he'd owned or what he'd done, soon it wouldn't matter about anything. Soon he'd be free.

Taking a moment he closed his eyes and reflected. Images flashed through his mind. Christmas', New Years', birthdays, all mixed together in a montage of color and sound and emotions. He remembered the murder's, the adventures, the dinners. It all flooded back to him now with such clarity, more than he'd had in three years. He wondered if maybe he hadn't remembered it like this because he'd wanted it so much and now it didn't matter.

He remembered the first time Sherlock had kissed him. It had been raining and they had been hunting down a serial burglary. He'd slipped on some wet grass and reached out to break his fall, grabbing onto Sherlock's forearm. When the taller man had turned, their eyes had locked and they'd swayed close to each other. They had struggled with this from the moment they meet. There was a quick, insistent fire coursing through him and he knew from the look in Sherlock's eyes it was the same for him. The first brush of lips had been a shock and the second had been demanding and insistent and he'd known what it was like to fly. The kiss hadn't lasted long, just a few seconds but it had been enough to prove once and for all that their relationship wasn't completely platonic.

John sighed as he laid back against the cool grass and went farther, let his brain conjure images of the first time they'd made love. It had been amazing, such exquisite torture. Sherlock had teased him with light touches and kisses all over his body and he'd been shocked when his flatmate had taken his erection into his mouth and sucked him to completion. He remembered watching as Sherlock's throat muscles moved and his cheeks hollowed. The moans and pleas that had rant through the air without a thought to what had been said.

There had been the gentle exploration he had initiated of Sherlock. Every dip and curve had been expertly formed. There were scars on his forearms and thighs. Thin, white scars that John had kissed and he'd felt the pain pouring from them. They had been the desperate cries of a young boy who didn't understand his world or his mind or why he felt the way he did. He'd known that without needing to be told. He'd gazed up at Sherlock while he'd laved them and seen the ghosts and shadows that lived there and watched as in that moment they were chased away. His heart had lifted and he'd never loved anyone more than he loved Sherlock in that one moment.

It had been easy, he remembered, so very easy to let Sherlock take control of his body. He'd lain on his back with his knees drawn up to his chest and his breathing heavy and frantic. His friend had prepared him, spending time opening his body to accept his invasion, to accommodate his wide girth and length. John had been surprised by the size of Sherlock's penis. It was just as perfectly formed as the rest of him.

He'd watched as Sherlock had leaned forward and lined himself up before slowly moving inside him, careful not to hurt him. The rhythm was a slow and steady assault on John's senses. They had moved together without hesitation, as if they had done it a billion times before. It was the same time every time.

Always perfect, John recalled as he opened his eyes and stared up at the clouds rolling around in the blue sky through tears. A breeze fluttered over him and cooled the hot tear tracks on his face. He raised the gun to his temple, turning his head to offer a watery smile at the gravestone.

"I'm coming to you," he whispered right before he pulled the trigger. The sudden sound of gunfire startled the people at the entrance and within moments a guard found him.

It was already too late.

_Let's walk down a road that has no end_   
_Steal away where only angels tread_   
_Heaven or hell or somewhere in between_   
_Cross my heart to take me when you leave_   
_Don't go, please, don't go_   
_Don't go without me_

Mycroft Holmes sat inside the Club and read the paper the next morning and felt saddened.

Former Army Doctor Commits Suicide Beside Friend's Grave.

The post told very little about the connection between them, only that they had been friends and flatmates. There was mention of the scandal leading up to Sherlock's death and a rather interesting theory about Jim Moratiy that Mycroft fully intended to investigate further. But the writers had made Dr. John Watson shine for a few moments. It mentioned that he had been found by cemetery security and that he had shot himself straight through the temple. He'd left a note that the police, meaning Detective Inspector Lestrade, hadn't released. The words "war hero", "accomplished doctor" and the like were sprinkled liberally throughout the column. His phone buzzed silently in his pocket and he reached into his coat and removed it. He didn't need to recognize the number to know who it was from. He'd been expecting this all morning.

Mycroft took a moment to carefully fold the paper and lay it beside him before opening the message.

_What did you do? I asked you to look after him. -SH_

_He couldn't take it anymore, Sherlock. He wanted you back. I tried to help him. I'm so sorry. -MH_

As he hit send he wondered if before tomorrow he'd be called to identify another body.


End file.
